


Hearts and Bones and Blood

by enigma731



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Natasha Romanov Joins SHIELD, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Therapy, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-14
Updated: 2015-10-14
Packaged: 2018-04-26 04:13:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4989790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigma731/pseuds/enigma731
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>It’s become a routine, watching Natasha walk through the doors of the mental health clinic, a subtle air of trepidation in all her movements. Afterward, he finds her glassy-eyed and vacant, waiting for orders he isn’t ever going to provide. When they get home, Clint tells her the story of the bruises on her wrists, the healing wounds on her shoulder and his side. He tells her the story of where they are, and how she got there, and of the small, fragile trust she’s beginning to build.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was born out of my frustration with seeing both Natasha's PTSD and the role of therapy in healing frequently ignored or written off by fandom. I've seen countless discussions of reasons why various Avengers would scorn therapy, and while that might be true in terms of character choices, it's always seemed to me that therapy would nonetheless play a major role in facilitating the growth that we see. So I asked myself what a realistic therapy protocol might look like for young!Natasha, and this story is the result. 
> 
> A couple of disclaimers: The therapy depicted in this fic is based on a real protocol used with military personnel being treated for PTSD. However, there is artistic license taken here--because seriously, a lot of important parts of therapy would be very boring to read--and I am in no way presenting any of this in a professional capacity, although I did aim for realism in the writing of this story.
> 
> And a warning: There are detailed descriptions of traumatic evens in this story. That includes violent treatment of children. There's also significant suicidal ideation explored in this fic. I didn't pull any punches here because, like I said, I was aiming for a realistic depiction of what this type of recovery might be like for Natasha. That said, I don't want to upset or trigger anybody, so please take care in your decision to read or not read.
> 
> Finally, thank you so much to everyone who has helped me discuss, hash out, and stay motivated to write this thing over the past six months. I couldn't have finished it without all of you. That said, this is the first story in what could be a 100k+ concept. I didn't write an exhaustive process of recovery because that's not an easily defined thing. But I may write more in this 'verse in the future, so please let me know if you'd like to read more.

Clint is in the middle of the mountain of paperwork that’s consumed his desk for the past month when he gets called to the Director’s office. In retrospect, he probably ought to have realized that meant something big, especially considering Hill’s threat of stapling his ass to his chair until all his reports were up to date. As it is, he’s mostly curious, and happy to have any sort of distraction. He’s always been made for the field, for the thick of the action, not for filling out forms and spotting typos.

Fury doesn’t look up from his desk as Clint walks into his office, but he gets the sense, as always, that the Director can see every move he’s making. Dramatic tension’s always been one of Fury’s strong suits.

“You wanted to see me, Sir?” asks Clint, because he has the ability to stay still and silent in any circumstances except when he’s faced with authority.

“Have a seat,” says Fury, gesturing to the chair across from his desk as he signs off on the report he’s apparently just finished reading.

Clint does as he’s told, lacing his fingers in his lap, first one way, and then the other.

“There’s a problem with Romanoff,” says Fury, and suddenly Clint thinks he ought to have known it would be about that.

It’s been nearly two weeks since Clint gained the infamy of being the one to bring the Black Widow in, and he hasn’t yet decided whether that’s a triumph or a regret. He hasn’t been allowed to see her again in that time, anyway, things disappointingly normal again while S.H.I.E.L.D. keeps her sequestered in Medical, at least until they can identify and neutralize the triggers she’s been left with. Clint knows there’s no guarantee that she’ll make it out of there at all, if she’s deemed too much of a threat, or if there isn’t enough of a person left underneath the Red Room’s programming.

“She hurt someone?” Clint asks carefully, because that seems perversely the better of the two options, is still somehow preferable to the news that the psych team’s determined the woman he’s barely met to be a total loss.

Fury shakes his head. “No. She’s been very cooperative so far. Started the psych protocol a couple of days ago.”

Clint swallows, thinking he doesn’t like where this is going. “So what’s the problem?”

“The protocol is--” Fury pauses, though whether he’s legitimately searching for the right word or simply for effect, Clint will never be sure. “It’s not pleasant. Romanoff has decided she would rather take us up on the other option than continue with the treatment.”

Clint sucks in a breath, the reality of that statement sinking in. “She wants us to kill her. Now? _After_ she agreed to come in?”

“That was her request.” Fury rests his forearms on the surface of his desk. “It would be unfortunate, given the circumstances.”

“So why are you telling me?” Clint snaps, wondering whether this is going to turn into a lecture, a reprisal for failing to take her out in the first place.

“I asked her to reconsider,” says Fury. “But she’s young. She’s alone, in a foreign country, with a bunch of would-be hostiles asking her to give up the little autonomy she has and confront the fact that she has never been her own person. And it has to be _her_ decision.”

“And you think she’ll listen to me?” asks Clint, because he knows that look in the Director’s eyes, knows this is the part where Fury convinces him he’s the man for the job.

“So far,” says Fury, “you’re the only one she _has_ listened to.”

* * *

For all the times Clint’s landed in Medical, he’s managed to avoid this wing so far. Unit 4L is the ward where you get sent for longterm psychiatric care, the one where you land when the job finally breaks you too badly to take care of yourself. It’s enough to set him on guard from the moment he steps off the elevator, too close to the precipice he’s found himself staring down in the past.

For all that he’s heard about this place, he’s expecting something out of an asylum horror story--yellowed tiles, acrid smells of disinfectant, unknown substances smudged on the walls, maybe.

Instead what he gets is a perfectly ordinary reception area, with faded watercolors on the walls, a tiny serenity fountain that does nothing to make him forget where he is, and a rack of brochures that don’t look like they’ve been touched in at least a month.

“Agent Barton,” says the woman behind the desk, when he shows his badge. “The Director mentioned you’d be coming by. I’ll take you back.”

The room where they’ve got Natasha-- _Romanoff_ won’t stick in his mind, though he knows he’d do better to keep his emotional distance--looks like every other hospital room Clint’s ever seen. Television in the corner, too-small side table, bed with rails and adjustable height. He doesn’t miss the fact that they’ve put her in restraints, though, strapped to the bed by both wrists, which appears to be the only thing currently preventing her from curling into the smallest ball physically possible. Her eyes are closed, but the lines of her face belie the fact that she isn’t asleep, twisted in pain. Looking at her _hurts_ even from the observation window in the door, and Clint wonders suddenly whether this is why Hill grimaces every time she visits him after a mission gone wrong.

Clint opens the door quietly, but she startles anyway, sitting up in a rush that makes the restraints pull, jerking her back toward the bed. Her eyes are red and glassy, he sees now, ringed by shadows, and there’s sweat drenching her hairline. He can’t make out the lines of her body beneath the shapeless hospital gown she’s wearing, but he has the sense that she looks somehow gaunt, more brittle than the woman he met just weeks ago.

“Hey,” says Clint, holding up a hand in what he hopes is a calming gesture. “Just me.” She looks far away, he thinks, the sort of distance he’s seen in people who are living something other than the world around them.

Natasha looks him up and down, slowly, which at least seems to make her focus for a moment. “So. You’re the one they send every time they need someone to kill me? That your job? S.H.I.E.L.D.’s executioner?”

“Not here to kill you,” says Clint, though he wonders whether that will be a disappointment.

She rolls her eyes at him, but the sound of her breathing in the stillness of the room is a dead giveaway--too quick, too shallow, and clearly panicked. “Then you’re wasting your time.”

Clint takes a few steps closer, slowly, telegraphing every movement. “Fury told me you wanted to change your mind.” He steels himself, bites his tongue before plunging forward. “He told me you want us to kill you.”

“I agreed to a job,” says Natasha, through gritted teeth. “This isn’t a job, it’s--If this _therapy_ is the price for my life, then I don’t want it.”

“Not sure I know anyone who’d be thrilled about therapy,” says Clint, though he’s pretty sure that’s such an absurd understatement that it might even be insulting.

Natasha sneers at him, and suddenly she’s deadly powerful again underneath it all. “Do what I’m asking or get out.”

For a moment Clint thinks it might all be a ploy, might be a game to get herself a better deal or manipulate her way into a more strategic position. She might have played Fury, might be playing him right now too. She’s clearly good enough for that and more.

Clint shrugs, turning his back on her to head for the door, calling her bluff. “Okay, have a nice day.”

“Wait,” she calls out, before he’s even put his hand on the doorknob. He’s actually surprised. “Please, wait.”

He takes a breath and crosses his arms, not turning around yet. “I’m listening.”

He isn’t sure exactly what he’s expecting--more demands, more taunts, or possibly even some sort of plea. What he gets instead is silence, and an uneasy feeling that slithers down the back of his neck. He knows well enough not to ignore his instincts; something is very wrong.

When Clint turns back, Natasha has her eyes shut, sweat beading on her hairline, the leather straps of the restraints biting into the raw skin of her wrists as she tries to curl up again. The panicked agony in her face is absolutely genuine, and something in his gut twists painfully.

“Romanoff,” Clint says tentatively, unsurprised when she doesn’t move. He knows what it’s like to wake up screaming, knows what it’s like reliving nightmarish memories while conscious, too.

He takes the few steps back to the side of her bed, hoping somehow the sound of his movements might get a response. It doesn’t.

“Romanoff,” Clint repeats, louder. That only makes her flinch, makes her knuckles go white as she balls her hands into fists.

Clint reaches out instinctively, resting a hand on her arm. Natasha blinks at him in response, like he’s sent some sort of shock through her, brought her back into the present. Her eyes are bright with unshed tears, and she’s shaking visibly, the brash facade utterly crumbled.

“I can’t,” she whispers, “I can’t keep doing this. Just--please, end it.”

It could still be a trick to buy his sympathy, but he isn’t willing to believe that.

“I’m not going to do that,” he says, more gently. “I’m going to help you.” He moves quickly, not affording himself any more time to change his mind, and unbuckles the restraints, wincing when he sees how bruised her wrists are from fighting the things.

“What are you doing?” asks Natasha, looking up at him wide-eyed, but not making any sort of move.

Clint pauses for a moment, feeling awkward. He’s guessing here, playing a hunch. This could go very, very badly if he’s wrong. Not that that’s ever stopped him before. “Helping. Sit up.”

She does as instructed, silently, exhaling a shaky breath before shivering again.

There’s a pitcher of water and a stack of plastic cups on the bedside table--standard issue for Medical, apparently. Clint pours a drink quickly and then sits on the mattress beside her before handing it over. She’s shaking so much that for a moment he’s legitimately worried she might not be able to balance it, but she manages, sipping carefully before turning to look at him again, her gaze weighty with unspoken questions.

“Look around,” says Clint, resting a hand against the flat of her back. “Tell me where you are.”

She stays quiet for a moment longer, glancing around the room like he’s asked, though he can’t be sure of how well she’s actually connecting. “Medical. S.H.I.E.L.D. Medical.” He can feel her shoulders relax, ever so slightly.

He nods. “And S.H.I.E.L.D. is safe, right?”

Natasha considers, her expression shifting subtly toward disdain. “For a given definition of ‘safe.’”

Clint snorts, because he can’t exactly blame her there, especially when it comes to being in Medical. Hardly his favorite place either. “Fair enough. But--A minute ago you were somewhere else, right?”

“The Red Room also has a medical ward,” she says carefully, her tone so purely neutral now that he can practically sense the fear behind it.

“They shackled you to the bed,” he says slowly, the pieces falling together. He remembers the intel from the files, reports of deadly girls with bruised wrists going all the way back to S.H.I.E.L.D.’s inception. “And we did too. That’s--what reminded you?”

She shakes her head. “No. Your _therapists_ made me remember. The rest just--made it impossible to stop.”

“Shit,” Clint breathes, the weight of it all settling on his shoulders as he realizes how far this must seem from the safety he’d promised when she’d agreed to his offer on the night they met.

Natasha laughs, bitterly. “That’s one way of putting it. But I am _not_ going to continue like this. I left the Red Room because I refused to let them continue using fear to control me. I will die before I let S.H.I.E.L.D. do the same.”

“No,” he agrees. “No, we can’t do that.”

She raises an eyebrow. “So what’ll it be?”

Clint shakes his head, a plan beginning to form in his mind. “I need to talk to Fury.”

“To tell him that I’m insane?”

He sighs. “No. To tell him that you need to stay somewhere else.”


	2. Chapter 2

The beautiful thing about Nick Fury is that he’s willing to invest in crazy ideas. It isn’t really that he _ignores_ protocol so much as that he looks past it, sees the bigger picture. Clint can appreciate that, especially in his superiors. He wouldn’t have bought in with S.H.I.E.L.D. in the first place if it had been any different. Fury is a visionary, but beyond that, he’s also willing to put his trust in Clint’s judgment. Which is how he’s ended up here, inviting one of the world’s deadliest spies into his living room.

Natasha’s been quiet the whole drive here, has barely said three sentences to him since he showed up to spring her from medical. Her expression is blank every time he glances over at her, and he can’t help wondering where her thoughts are, whether she’s even still present with him. She’s silent as she climbs the stairs to his apartment in front of him, a choice she’s made without being directed. Clint doesn’t say anything--not yet, anyway--though she’s still treating him more like a prison guard than an ally. The fact that she probably doesn’t know any better twists something inside of his chest.

“So,” says Clint, when they get in the door. He glances around his apartment, feeling suddenly irrationally self-conscious. He’s never really considered this place a _home_ , though he spends more nights here than anywhere else. Still, he’s suddenly aware of the clutter, the unwashed dishes in the sink, the lack of effort in making this place feel anything other than functional. At least he’s thought to put clean sheets on the bed.

“So?” Natasha echoes, turning to face him, a few steps into the living room. There’s nothing confrontational about her tone; Clint actually finds himself wishing she’d show _some_ trace of the fighter he met in the field.

Clint shrugs. “You can--make yourself at home?” He points down the apartment’s short hallway. “Bathroom’s the first door on the right, bedroom’s at the end. Feel free to take a shower or whatever.” He’s pretty sure S.H.I.E.L.D.’s sent her with a small selection of clothes--probably all black, all bearing their logo--and other supplies. If not, well--he’ll have to figure that out.

She eyes him for another long moment, during which Clint finds himself wondering whether she’s actually planning to back down the hallway, keeping her gaze on him the whole time. She doesn’t, though, turns at last and makes her way toward the back half of his apartment with her unfamiliar bag in tow.

Clint makes himself turn away then, because he thinks that’s the sort of gesture of trust he’d be wanting if their positions were reversed. It isn’t that he’s afraid of her--afraid _for_ her is more accurate at this point. Plus, now that he’s managed to get her released, he isn’t entirely sure exactly how he’s supposed to be helping. Hospitality has never really been his forte, especially here, where he’s accustomed to being on his own. 

He spends a few minutes trying to tidy up, managing to get the dishes in the sink washed, and then tackling the fridge, which is thankfully not entirely horrific. He’s made his way out to the living room and is contemplating where to put the latest batch of supplies for experimental arrowheads currently covering the coffee table when he catches sight of the clock on the wall. It’s been nearly half an hour since they arrived here, he realizes suddenly, and although he hasn’t exactly given Natasha definite orders, his stomach begins coiling itself into an uneasy knot. He hasn’t heard any movement from the bedroom or bathroom, no sounds of water running. 

Taking a breath, Clint glances toward the hallway--Both doors are still open, and he decides he needs to investigate. 

“Romanoff?” he calls, taking a few steps into the hallway. He doesn’t want to startle her, doesn’t want to give her the impression he’s any sort of threat. Clint remembers entirely too well what it’s like to feel helpless and afraid, and right now he’s pretty sure that Natasha’s never known anything else. 

“Natasha?” he tries again, taking a few more cautious paces. Somewhere in the back of his mind is the thought that this is a woman who kills by convincing powerful men that she is unable to defend herself. If this is a trap, then he must be one of the most naive marks she’s ever dealt with. But he refuses to believe that--He’s already laid too many of his cards on the table to give up now. 

Clint freezes when he reaches the bathroom doorway, catching sight of Natasha standing just inside of it. She’s still wearing the generic sweats that S.H.I.E.L.D. gave her upon discharge from Medical. A beat later he sees what she’s holding, and a rush of cold adrenaline washes over him. 

Her body is held perfectly still, though there’s visible tension in the lines of her shoulders. She’s looking down at her hand--still bruised from the IV line--and her fingers are wrapped around the handle of the straight razor he thoughtlessly left sitting on the counter.

For a moment Clint simply freezes too, panic surging through him. Until now, he’s felt no fear about having her here, has found himself oddly eager to trust her. But he knows what the Black Widow is capable of, read her file and saw it for himself in the field. And here he is, practically having walked into a trap he set for himself.

“Natasha,” Clint says quietly, trying to keep his voice and his breathing even. He shouldn’t jump to conclusions; she hasn’t made any move to attack him yet. “What are you doing?”

Her brow creases at the question, and she turns slowly to face him, like she’s only now become aware of his presence. “I don’t--understand.”

Clint swallows, forcing himself to think past the way his heart is pounding in his temples. “What?”

She looks down at the razor in her hand, then back up at him, still not making any move to attack. “What I’m supposed to do.”

Clint meets her eyes this time, and her gaze sends a chill straight through him. It’s not that he’s found malice there--really he hasn’t found anything at all. Her eyes look unfocused, glassy, reminding him of men he’s seen in the throes of psychosis, and once in another agent who was having a seizure. She isn’t here, he thinks, not any more than she was in Medical. His heart sinks at that realization--He’s been hoping that getting out of the hospital would help.

“Put the razor down,” he says finally, aiming for the neutral-but-suggestive tone he learned about years ago in a training on hostage negotiation. “Put it on the counter and then come here, please.”

She does exactly what he’s asked, her movements still detached, almost mechanical in a way that makes his skin crawl. 

Coming to a stop in front of him, she keeps her head down, an act of deference that seems terribly out of place in anyone with the fire he’s seen from her. “What are my orders?”

She isn’t seeing him, Clint thinks. To her, right now, he’s a handler, or maybe something even worse. Something he doesn’t want to contemplate. 

“Natasha,” he breathes, pausing for a moment before he remembers what reached her before, in Medical. It’s a gamble, he thinks as he reaches out to take her hand, but he’s always been good at taking a shot in the dark.

A shudder runs through her as he touches her, like she’s just awoken somewhere unfamiliar. 

“Come with me,” he says gently, when she doesn’t make any further moves. His instincts are screaming at him to get her away from the bathroom, at least until he can remove the damn razor and be sure there aren’t any other surprises he’s forgotten to think about.

Natasha just nods in response, lets him lead her back out to the living room, though she’s surprisingly unsteady on her feet. Clint gets her to the couch and motions for her to sit, which she does without question. It’s downright unnerving, how compliant she’s being, and he resolves not to think about what it would take to make a person like this. There’s a fleece blanket wadded up in one corner of his couch, abandoned from the last time he fell asleep here to the drone of the television. He picks it up and shakes it out--not dirty, just wrinkled--before offering it to Natasha. She takes it from him but doesn’t do anything else, just holds it in her lap like she might not be aware of its function. Clint thinks about taking it back from her, draping it around her shoulders himself, but that feels like overstepping even though he’s pretty sure she wouldn’t protest. Instead he sits on the opposite end of the couch, facing her, and tries to decide whether he ought to be apologizing for whatever’s just happened.

“How much time did I lose?” she asks, before he can come up with anything to say. She looks down at the blanket in her lap, her fingers playing along one edge where it’s started to fray.

Clint shakes his head, thinking about how subdued she’s been all day. He’s not sure he can read her either way. “I don’t know. What’s the last thing you remember?”

“I--” She breaks off, twisting the thin fibers of the blanket in a white-knuckled grasp. “I know I had therapy this morning. I know that you picked me up from Medical and brought me here. I know that this is your apartment. I can--I know all of those things are true. They’re facts. But I don’t remember any of them happening.”

“Okay.” Clint takes a breath, tells himself he knew this was a possibility. He’s seen the scars her training has left her with firsthand, let that drive his argument for bringing her here to stay with him. Only now it seems overwhelming, too much for him to have any hope of helping where S.H.I.E.L.D.’s best have scarcely scratched the surface. 

“When I touched you,” he says, after a few moments slip by in tense silence, “it helped, didn’t it? It brought you back.”

She nods slowly, looking up at him, then back down at her hands. She lets go of the blanket all at once, lets it fall into her lap again as though she’s just realized that she’s had it in her grasp. 

“Hey,” Clint says firmly, shifting closer to her on the couch and holding out both hands, palms turned upward. “Give me your hands.”

Natasha complies without another word, a shiver running through her again at the contact. Her hands are cold, and look impossibly pale against his, even in the dim light. The backs of them are discolored, blue and purple and green bruises from her knuckles up to her wrists, marking the damage left by IV lines and those damn restraints. 

“Tell me,” he says slowly, an idea taking root in the back of his mind. “Tell me how I got this.” He lets go of her right hand, very gently reaches down to pull up the hem of his t-shirt, so she can see the bandage taped to his side.

She winces, almost sympathetically, but she’s more focused on him than he’s seen all day. “I shot you. Grazed you. The night--I was so sure I had a kill shot, but you moved right as I pulled the trigger. What are you--”

“And this,” Clint interrupts, cautiously moving to brush his fingers over her shoulder, where he can see the bulk of gauze pads under the fabric of her shirt. “How did you get this?”

She tenses almost imperceptibly at his touch, then relaxes with a shaky breath, and Clint thinks he can see the moment when she figures out what he’s doing, when the realization sinks in. “You shot me. With one of your tranquilizer arrows. I--Lost time then, too. It scared you.”

“It showed me what you are,” he counters, still gently. He shifts so that he’s sitting right next to her, doesn’t hesitate when he reaches out to wrap both of his hands around her left. He runs the pad of his thumb up over one of the bruises, watches goosebumps spread over her arm. “How did you get these?”

Natasha swallows visibly, sucks in another breath. “In Medical. S.H.I.E.L.D. Medical. I--they tied me down and I got lost again.” She turns her hand in his, intertwines them, and he can feel her pulse racing in the tips of her fingers. “What am I, Clint?”

“A person,” he says softly, reaching out instinctively to wrap an arm around her shoulders as she leans into him, her whole body shaking violently with each breath. “Just a person who needs some help remembering what that means.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Why aren’t you watching me?” Natasha asks, as Clint comes in from the kitchen, carrying two bowls. 

He sets the food down on the coffee table and turns to face her, raising an eyebrow. “What, are you about to put on a performance?”

She snorts softly and shakes her head. She’s finally managed a shower, three hours after arriving here, and is currently back on his couch, the thick fleece blanket pulled tightly around her shoulders. “Not what I meant. Just--why aren’t you afraid I’ll hurt you?”

Clint studies her for a moment before answering. It isn’t a threat, isn’t a test, appears to be simply a genuine question from her. He shrugs. “Are you gonna hurt me?”

Natasha shakes her head slowly, looking like she’s having trouble believing it’s a real question on his part. “No.”

“Then I’m not gonna be afraid of it,” he counters simply. “Now, you should probably tell me what you want to drink with dinner.”

She blinks at him, like the idea of choices is still somehow alien. And probably it is, he thinks, on the basis of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s intel on the Red Room. It hasn’t occurred to him, though, that something as simple as choosing what to eat and drink might throw her when not on an assignment, when not given any sort of specific cover. Clint wonders, not for the first time, whether he’s actually done the right thing in convincing her to come in alive, whether he’s inadvertently stacked impossible odds against her.

He sighs. “Water okay?”

She just nods, though she still looks as though she’d like to ask a half dozen more questions. Clint ducks into the kitchen, pours the water as quickly as he can, sloshing a little over the sides of the glasses. 

Natasha still hasn’t moved when he gets back to the living room, though he gets the sense that it has more to do with uncertainty than etiquette. Knowing where she came from, it occurs to him that she’s probably waiting for permission to touch her food. Clint blows out a breath as he sits next to her again, tries not to let the disgust he feels over that show on his face. Getting angry at her training won’t do anything to help her, will only damage the fragile trust he’s been trying to build.

“Here,” he says gently, setting the water on the coffee table and holding one of the bowls out to her. He’s deluded himself, he realizes, into thinking that the conditions in Medical were the biggest of her problems. He’s expected things to be better for her here, and probably they are, but he’s over-estimated his own ability to battle inner demons that aren’t even his own.

She accepts the bowl from him, takes a cautious bite. Clint watches her chew with something verging on embarrassment, has the sudden urge to apologize for the food. Macaroni with hot dogs might be standard fare for him, but he’s fairly certain the idea of serving it to a guest doesn’t exactly earn him good host points.

“You can tell me if you want something else,” he offers, finally scooping up his own bowl and stabbing at its contents with his fork.

“No,” says Natasha, and the decisiveness of her tone surprises him. “It’s good.”

“Yeah?” asks Clint, smiling at her over the top of his bowl. “Well, I have it on good authority that any woman who likes macaroni and cheese has excellent taste.”

She takes another bite, studying the contents of her bowl. “I’ve never had it before. But I like it.”

“What else do you like?” he asks, after a few moments of them both eating in silence. Natasha eats like she expects the food to disappear, and he knows that feeling all too well.

She shakes her head, takes another bite of her food. “Doesn’t matter.”

Clint can see the walls come up at that question, realizes belatedly that it probably feels like manipulation. She’s probably never been asked by anyone who didn’t have an ulterior motive for the information.

“Sure it does,” he says gently, setting down his empty bowl and turning to face her. “I like music. Rock, mostly. And it’s the best when I can play it really loud. I also like coffee, and working outside.”

“And your bow, apparently,” says Natasha. She gives him the barest hint of a smile, which is enough to make him grin from ear to ear.

“Nah, I don’t like my bow. I _love_ my bow.”

She rolls her eyes. “My mistake.”

“It’s okay,” Clint teases. “I don’t think she heard you.”

Natasha snorts a laugh at that--just a small puff of breath, but it’s the first time he’s seen her look relaxed at all.

“I like tea,” she says finally, meeting his eyes in a way that sends a tiny jolt of adrenaline through him at its intensity. “Very warm, with sugar. And books. Especially new books. I like the way they smell.”

“Well,” says Clint, still smiling, “I can personally guarantee that you can have both those things.” He thinks, again, about how empty her life must have been up until now, if such simple things seem like luxuries.

He motions to her mostly-empty bowl, still in her hand. “You want more? There’s plenty still in the pot.”

She hesitates, then nods, still looking at him with that expression that makes him feel like she can see straight through him. “Yes.”

Clint takes the bowl from her and gets to his feet. He’s about to head back to the kitchen when she stops him.

“Wait.”

Clint turns back to face her, raises an eyebrow.

Natasha swallows, blows out a breath. “Just--thanks.”

* * *

Natasha has therapy twice a week, at least for now--at least until the S.H.I.E.L.D. psychologists decide she’s no longer an immediate threat--which unfortunately gives Clint a couple hours in a cubicle every few days, still trying to wade through the backlog of paperwork Maria’s been threatening to bury him under. 

It’s become a routine, watching Natasha walk through the doors of the mental health clinic, a subtle air of trepidation in all her movements that he wonders if others can detect. Afterward, he finds her glassy-eyed and vacant, waiting for orders he isn’t ever going to provide. When they get home, Clint tells her the story of the bruises on her wrists, the healing wounds on her shoulder and his side. He tells her the story of where they are, and how she got here, and of the small, fragile trust she’s beginning to build. She doesn’t resist, doesn’t complain, just does what she’s asked in silence, doesn’t ever ask anything of _him_ , though Clint’s pretty sure she’s come to expect his support, to rely on it, even.

Today, she’s shivering under a blanket on his couch once again, her hands wrapped around a mug of sugary peppermint tea. She has her eyes closed, breathing in the steam as she waits for it to cool enough to drink. She gets cold when she’s anxious, he’s noticed, when she’s struggling with the ghosts in her head. 

“Hey,” says Clint, before sitting down beside her. He isn’t sure where her mind is right now, doesn’t want to startle her.

“Hi,” she echoes, opening her eyes and looking over at him. She takes a sip of her tea, swallowing visibly.

“You with me?” asks Clint, because he hasn’t done anything to help her shake off the past after today’s session. But she seems to be focused despite that.

She nods. “Yes. Tea’s good.”

Clint raises an eyebrow, wanting to see her smile. “Magical healing tea? I should look into marketing that.”

Natasha rolls her eyes in response, takes another drink. “If you could invent a tea that replaced therapy, I’m pretty sure you’d be the richest man alive.”

“Definitely more palatable than therapy,” he agrees. There’s something here beneath the surface, he thinks, something she needs him to hear. “How’s that going, by the way?”

“Terrible,” she says immediately, then catches herself. “I mean--I’m trying. I want to cooperate.”

“Hey,” Clint says gently. “I’m here to help. I’m not evaluating you.”

“Of course you’re evaluating me,” she says flatly, then shrugs, seemingly deciding to throw caution to the wind. “Therapy is--They want me to talk about the things that happened to me. _Process them_ is the official line. But--I don’t remember half of it, and when I do, I just--get lost.” She shakes her head, looking up to meet his gaze. “I’d be lost all the time if it wasn’t for--this.”

That confession sends an odd shock through him--he’s been wanting honesty from her, after all, but now that she’s offered it, he’s not sure he knows how to respond. “Are you--asking me to go to therapy with you?”

She hesitates for a long moment, her fingers playing along the edge of the blanket. “Yes. I guess I am.”


	4. Chapter 4

S.H.I.E.L.D.’s mental health clinic--the one for people who have already been sprung from the hospital ward--is one floor above the administrative offices. Which is fairly fucking perfect, as far as Clint’s concerned. 

He’s been here entirely too many times before, to be evaluated, to prove that repeated concussions haven’t _completely_ scrambled his brain just yet, and sometimes for the requisite crisis counseling sessions that are mandatory for anyone deemed to have experienced more than the average trauma in the line of duty. He’s never had anything positive to say or feel about this place, but he isn’t about to let Natasha know that. It’s painfully clear that she needs help, and far more than he’s capable of giving on his own. He just hopes they aren’t wasting too much of anyone’s time on making her connect dots, build things out of blocks, or come up with as many words as possible beginning with the letter A.

A week ago, Natasha had a security escort that insisted upon walking her back into the clinic, but nobody materializes to do that today. Either they’ve decided that Natasha is now stable enough to handle a hallway without any major incidents, or someone’s gotten the memo that Clint is with her. She doesn’t try to resist, doesn’t complain, just dutifully makes her way to the proper office when it’s time for her appointment to begin. 

The shrink’s name is Susan Drummond according to the sign on the door. The woman is tall, thin, and moderately pretty. She looks like the type of person Clint might have pegged for a pushover were it not for the quiet strength that seems to radiate off of her, stiff posture and immaculate hair and makeup suggesting that this is a woman who takes no shit from anyone.

Natasha nods by way of greeting, moves to sit in the chair on the far side of Dr. Drummond’s desk, obviously accustomed to this by now. Clint lingers in the doorway for a moment, feeling an odd sense of trepidation he’s pretty sure goes all the way back to childhood, when when the social worker assigned to his case tried to make him talk about his feelings. 

But this appointment isn’t about him, he reminds himself. There’s another empty chair in the corner of the room, and Clint takes it wordlessly, tries to make himself as still and silent as possible. Now that they’re here, he has no idea what Natasha is expecting from him, or what she needs, but he’s always been pretty good at flying by the seat of his pants. 

Clint studies his surroundings while Dr. Drummond starts the session, reviewing the things Natasha has been assigned for homework. There are several paintings of unnaturally serene landscapes hung on the wall of the office. There’s also a bookshelf, full of thick volumes with fancy titles about trauma, coping, and brains. He wonders how long it’s been since they were used as more than decorations.

“Okay,” says Dr. Drummond, the shift in her tone catching Clint’s attention. “We’ll start recording now. You know the drill, right?” She takes out a digital recorder, switches it on.

Natasha nods, crossing her arms. “Close my eyes and start at the beginning. Tell you everything I remember in present tense, like it’s happening right now.” She’s wearing a too-large S.H.I.E.L.D. sweatshirt today, looks practically engulfed in it, face half-obscured by her hair, and Clint wonders suddenly whether that was her reason for choosing it. 

“Go ahead,” says Dr. Drummond, leaning back in her chair in a way that reminds Clint of settling in for a recon mission.

Natasha gives another little nod, closes her eyes. Her demeanor begins to shift then; she’s been quiet and tense all morning, but Clint recognizes this as different. Before she was on edge, but now she looks resigned.

It takes her another moment to draw a few breaths, swallow visibly. “I’m in a room. It’s one that I know, but I can’t--exactly place it.”

“What does it look like?” asks Drummond, in a tone that suggests she’s said it before. The words are almost like a refrain.

“Dark,” says Natasha. “Not completely, there are fluorescent lights overhead, but most of them have burned out. The one that’s right overhead is dim, and it keeps blinking. It--it makes a buzzing sound that reminds me of electricity. The kind that I use to make people talk.” She pauses, exhales heavily, the line of her jaw taut. “The floor is just bare concrete, so it’s--it’s not a training room. The walls are tiled. White. I’m facing one of them. The one where the door is, but it’s closed.”

“And what are you thinking, in this room?” asks Drummond, her voice a perfectly-timed intrusion, almost like this conversation has been choreographed.

“I don’t know,” says Natasha. “I’m not--I think there’s something behind me. Something important. But I can’t see what it is, because I’m facing the door.”

“Why the door?” asks Dr. Drummond.

Natasha shifts in the chair, a shiver running through her, and Clint resists the urge to reach out and touch her. He’s here to help her stay grounded, he thinks, but this doesn’t seem like the right time. He isn’t sure what he’s expected, why he ever thought something as simple as being in his presence might be enough to chase away her demons.

“I don’t know,” Natasha says again. Her voice edges toward frustration, the fingers of one hand curling into a white-knuckled fist. “I don’t _know_.”

Clint feels himself tensing, has a fleeting thought about whether he ought to intervene, prevent this doctor from pushing Natasha so far that someone here gets hurt. Drummond looks perfectly calm, though, unconcerned with the situation, and maybe that’s fair enough, given the line of work she’s chosen.

“Okay,” says Drummond. “You don’t have to know this second. Just try to stay with it. We’re all going to sit here and let you remember. Keep breathing, stay with the image.”

“I don’t remember,” Natasha says instead.

“You will,” says Dr. Drummond. “If you stay with the memory long enough, you will.”

Natasha falls silent for a few long moments after that. Clint becomes aware of the clock on the wall and the fact that he can hear it ticking. Suddenly in the quiet, it sounds deafening, impossible to shut out. Natasha still has her eyes closed, her brow furrowed and her hands balled into fists, which reminds him of what he found the first time he came to visit her in Medical.

“I _don’t know_ ,” she snarls, bringing the flat of her palm down against the edge of the desk with a loud _bang_ as she opens her eyes. 

Clint nearly jumps out of his skin. Drummond doesn’t even flinch.

“This is impossible,” says Natasha. “I’m not going to remember. This memory doesn’t belong to me. I’m not what you’re used to.”

“Trauma is not something anyone gets used to,” says Drummond, with a sad little smile. 

“Then what is the point of this?” demands Natasha, anger taking over in the wake of the memory.

“The point,” says Drummond, “is how you move on.”

Natasha says nothing to that, just sighs heavily. “Still not sure that’s worth it.”

Drummond nods patiently. “That’s understandable, but I don’t think you’re in a position to judge that yet. Now, let’s continue. Close your eyes again, go back to the beginning.”

* * *

“Is it always like that?” Clint asks, when they’re back at his place. Only now, after seeing a session, does he realize that he’s never really considered how therapy for a brainwashed child assassin ought to work. It unsettles him a little, watching the process from the outside, but more than anything else he finds himself hoping that it will work.

Natasha is already curled up in the corner of his couch, her fingers playing along the edge of the blanket that’s been her constant companion over the past few weeks. Physical comfort is one of the few things he _can_ provide; he knows the value of a soft blanket, a warm mug, and a full stomach when those things have been scarce before. He sits on the other end of the sofa, giving her time to respond when she’s ready.

“How do you mean?” she asks, after a moment, dropping the edge of the blanket to rest one hand in her lap and looking at him sideways, her expression not quite suspicious.

“I mean--” Clint sighs, trying to decide what it actually is that he’s asking. _Does it ever help you?_ feels too forward, almost cruel. “Just--tell me what it’s like for you? I want to understand.”

He half expects her to refuse, but she’s invited him into this journey, and she seems to realize that.

“I have this--image,” she says slowly, grabbing the blanket again like it’s a lifeline. “I’m in a room, in the dark. There’s--something there. Something I have to do, or--something terrible. I don’t know, but it’s--It’s the worst one. Of the memories. There are others, but this one--it’s the one that gets me lost.” She swallows, her fingers shaking against the soft fleece fabric. “Remembering it feels like dying.”

“Hey,” Clint says softly, reaching out and grabbing her hand where it’s curled into the blanket. He isn’t sure why he does it right then, but when he sees the way it shakes her, makes her look up and exhale slowly, he knows it’s the right decision. 

“The shrink wants me to find the rest of the memory,” says Natasha, bitterly. “That’s supposed to--I don’t know, give me control over it, or something.”

“You don’t agree?” Clint asks, knowing he wouldn’t, in her place. Hell, he’s uneasy just imagining that scenario.

“I think that I have _never_ been the one in control of my memories,” she says darkly, pinning him with her gaze.

Clint nods, squeezes her hand gently. “Will you think I’m cheesy if I say there’s a first time for everything?”

“Definitely,” she agrees, but she smiles weakly, doesn’t pull her hand away.

* * *

“I’m facing the wall,” says Natasha. “The one where the door is. It’s tiled--white. Some of them are cracked, there’s a big indentation like--like someone ran into that wall. Like they broke it with their body.” She’s still wearing the too-big hoodie--all of the clothes she has are S.H.I.E.L.D. surplus--but her hair is pulled back today, leaving her face more exposed than the first time Clint watched her do this. 

“Good,” says Drummond, sitting impassively behind her desk. “The detail is good, it’s new. Keep going.”

Clint wonders for a moment what she’d do if he wasn’t in the room, whether she’d be paying as much attention with nobody observing. 

“I’m looking at the door,” says Natasha. “There’s a mirror on it.” She pauses, bites her lip. “No. Not a mirror. A window. I think someone is there.”

“Do you know who it is?” asks Drummond, her tone still maddeningly calm.

“No,” Natasha repeats, the pitch of her voice rising, though Clint can’t tell if it’s in anxiety or frustration. “No, it’s--just blank. Like somebody erased it.” She laughs darkly. “Somebody probably did erase it.”

“I don’t think so,” says Drummond. “Because you’ve already remembered more than you thought you could. Stay with the details. What are you thinking, in the memory? What are you feeling?”

“I feel sick,” Natasha breathes. “But I don’t know if it’s then or now.”

Drummond nods, more to herself than anything else. “What about your other senses? What do you smell? What do you hear?”

“Someone’s--someone’s crying,” she whispers, a violent shudder running through her. “I think it’s me.” Natasha falls silent after that, the sound of her breathing rough against the quiet in the room.

“Okay,” says Drummond, after what feels like an eternity. “Okay, Natasha, that’s enough for today. Open your eyes and come back to this room.”

* * *

“Ever had a grilled cheese?” Clint asks. It’s the first thought that comes to mind as he locks the door of the apartment behind them. Natasha’s been characteristically quiet, withdrawn since the end of the therapy session, which has him groping for some way to help. 

She shakes her head, pausing on her path to the couch and giving him a quizzical look. 

“Well,” says Clint, aware that his enthusiasm probably sounds forced, slightly desperate, “Good news. I have it on good authority that melted cheese heals all ills.”

“Whose authority?” asks Natasha, surprising him when she follows him into the kitchen.

“Mine,” he answers cheerily, pulling out a chair at the kitchen table and gesturing grandly for her to sit. 

She does, turning sideways to keep her gaze on him as he pulls ingredients from the fridge. “You’re the authority on cheese?”

“I’m great at cheese,” says Clint, grinning. “Also sandwiches.” He works quickly, slathering butter onto bread and heating a skillet on the stove. 

“You’re strange,” says Natasha, tracking every move that he makes.

Clint laughs. “The bow and arrow didn’t give it away?”

Her lips twitch at that, something like mirth in her eyes. “You have a point. But I like it.”

* * *

“I’m facing the wall,” says Natasha, and it’s beginning to sound practiced, almost rehearsed. “It’s tiled in white. The door is to my right, and it has a window in it. There’s somebody there, but all I can make out is the silhouette.”

It’s been two weeks with no appreciable progress, and Clint hates to admit that he’s begun to find his mind wandering during the sessions, feels more frustration over the holes in her memory than even she has managed to vocalize so far.

“Okay,” says Drummond. She looks thoughtful today, more engaged than she’s been in a while. She’s been biding her time, letting Natasha work her way through repetition after repetition of the same thing. But today is different, somehow. “You’ve been focusing on the room, and the person in the hallway. Which is good. That’s a worthwhile thing to do. But I want you to try focusing on yourself now.”

“You’ve asked me that before,” says Natasha, blinking her eyes open for a moment to regard Drummond skeptically. “What am I thinking, how am I feeling, what can I see and hear and smell around me. I’ve told you everything I know. You sure this isn’t an interrogation?”

“I think you know that it isn’t,” says Drummond, refusing to take the bait. “Please close your eyes and try to focus on the memory.”

Natasha looks positively murderous for a moment, but she does as she’s told, closing her eyes and settling back in the chair again.

“You have the image in your mind?” asks Drummond.

She nods.

“Focus on yourself,” says Drummond. “On your senses. Not on what’s around you, what’s going on in your mind, in your body. Tell me what you’re wearing.”

Natasha pauses for a moment, thinking. “Black. Pants and a shirt. Not a uniform. Just--clothes.”

“Keep going,” says Drummond. “See yourself. What else is there to notice?”

“I’m holding something. Metal. It’s cold. I think it’s a knife.” Natasha’s brow furrows. “No, not a knife. A razor.”

Clint feels as though the air has been sucked from the room, as though someone’s punched him the gut. He remembers, suddenly, that first day in his apartment, the way the sight of the razor in his bathroom had sent her tumbling into freefall. The room in her memory isn’t one he’s ever seen, he’s sure, but it might as well have been, that day. 

“Good,” says Drummond. “Keep going.”

“There’s blood on my hands,” Natasha whispers, but there’s something off about her tone, a distance Clint recognizes from Medical, from the night they met. 

Drummond says nothing, allows them all to sit in silence for a long moment. 

“I don’t understand,” Natasha says finally, letting her eyes fall open. “I did what you told me. What did I do wrong?”

The distance in her gaze makes Clint’s stomach clench; she isn’t here anymore, or at least not here in the present. 

Drummond notices it too, sitting up straighter in her chair and leaning forward a bit. “Natasha, tell me where you are right now.”

“I don’t understand,” she repeats. “What are my orders?”

“Hey,” Clint breaks in, not letting himself second guess the decision as he moves to rest a hand on her arm. “Hey, look at me.” 

Natasha shakes herself meets his eyes. “Hi,” she manages after a moment. “Thank you.”


	5. Chapter 5

Natasha heads straight into the bathroom when they get back to the apartment, without so much as a word of explanation. Which, admittedly, probably shouldn’t be necessary, were it not for the slip he’s just witnessed. Were it not for what happened the first time Clint brought her here, to his place.

He forces himself to take a breath, goes into the kitchen and puts on a pot of coffee. The apartment is small enough that he can still hear it when the shower starts, the sound making him pause again, unable to shake the knot of dread in the pit of his stomach. 

He trusts her, he tells himself. He _wants_ to trust her, but still he can’t shake the image of Natasha, bruises darkening the skin around her wrists, his razor held in a desperate grasp. There’s nothing so foolish left in the bathroom now, he’s pretty sure, though he’s fully aware that just about anything could be a weapon in her hands. It isn’t himself he’s afraid for, exactly. He can’t quite seem to put a name to the fear that won’t quit gnawing at his attention.

Giving up on any pretense of calm, Clint leaves the coffee pot burbling away and wanders into the back hallway, between the bathroom door and the entry to the bedroom where Natasha’s been staying. He lingers for a moment, feeling aimless, before taking a few steps back when the sound of the water stops. 

He’s still standing there, rooted to the spot, when Natasha emerges, looking practically engulfed in one of his largest towels. She pauses as she catches sight of him, and there’s something in her face that twists his concern into raw guilt.

“We should talk,” Clint manages finally, because he’s painfully aware that he needs to say _something_. 

“You want me to do that with or without clothes?” asks Natasha, the edge of cynicism in her voice surprising.

“With,” Clint says quickly, forcing himself to look away. “With clothes. I’ll let you get dressed.” He turns, heads back to the living room to give her the space she needs.

It’s scarcely a few minutes later when she reemerges, in yet another set of surplus S.H.I.E.L.D. workout gear. They’ll have to do something about this clothing situation soon, Clint thinks absently.

Natasha perches on the edge of the couch, not bothering with the blanket this time. She gives him an expectant look.

Clint takes a breath, tries to figure out what it is he actually wants to say. “Tell me--tell me what happened today.”

“You know what happened,” says Natasha, her tone bitter again. “You were there.”

“Yes,” Clint agrees, sighing. “Yes, I know I was there. But I want to hear it from you. What it was like for you.”

She looks down at her hands, laces them together for a moment before resting both palms against her thighs. “I started to remember. But instead I got lost.”

“The razor,” Clint says carefully. “You remember the first time I brought you here? You found one in the bathroom?”

“Of course I remember,” says Natasha, though Clint thinks it might be bravado. 

“The thing you remembered today,” says Clint, wishing that she’d meet his eyes again, “that wasn’t--the room in your memory isn’t my bathroom. Is it?” He’s fairly certain that she wouldn’t be haunted by something so insignificant, yet suddenly his mistake that day feels larger than he ever would have imagined.

She laughs darkly. “No.”

“But you did think of it today,” he insists, unable to believe that he’s wrong. “It helped you remember.”

She nods once, finally looking up to meet his eyes again.

“I’m sorry,” Clint breathes.

“No,” she repeats, before he has a chance to say anything else. “It’s--I don’t think I’ll ever be upset about getting memories _back._ ”

* * *

“I’m in a room,” says Natasha. “The floor is concrete, and most of the lights are out, except for the one above me. I’m facing a wall with white tiles. The door is to my right, and I can see somebody in the hallway through the window at the top of it.” 

She has her hair pulled back into a bun today, and the lines of her face are taut with concentration. It’s been a week since the details began coming back to her, and for the first time she seems eager to work in this session.

“Good,” says Drummond, and Clint wonders just how many times this woman says that word during an average work week.

“It’s--I want to leave,” says Natasha, shifting against the chair without opening her eyes. “I want to get out of the room, but--the person at the door won’t--It’s one of my trainers. Not Madame, but--one of the senior agents. They’ll tell Madame if I leave.”

“So what do you do?” asks Drummond, and there’s an unmistakeable hint of excitement in her tone. This is already much farther than they’ve gone to date, and Natasha still seems focused, determined.

“I turn around.” Natasha reaches out blindly, which makes Drummond sit back in her chair. Natasha’s fingers wrap around the edge of the desk closest to her, looking for purchase. 

“Keep going,” Drummond encourages, and Clint can’t deny the way his own heart rate is picking up. Natasha isn’t lost--at least not yet--but they are in dangerous territory.

“There’s--someone on a table,” says Natasha. “It’s metal, and they’re strapped down.”

“Do you recognize this person?” asks Drummond.

Natasha shakes her head. “No, it’s--I can see the body but not the face. The face is just--blank.”

“That’s okay,” says Drummond. “Let’s just keep going, we can focus on the details later.”

“The person on the table is crying,” Natasha breathes. “That’s--they’re the one, not me. I’m not crying, but I want to. I want to run and I want to vomit. It’s--all of those are things I want, but more than that I want to live.”

“And if you don’t do what the person at the door wants, you won’t be allowed to live?” asks Drummond.

Natasha sits up straighter, opens her eyes abruptly. “It doesn’t make sense,” she whispers. “I’m supposed to be--the razor is for the person on the table. To make them talk. But I don’t--I’ve done that dozens of times. I don’t know why this one is so different.”

* * *

Clint wakes with a start to a dark, quiet apartment. He’s been sleeping on the couch for over a month now, long enough that this alone isn’t disorienting, shouldn’t be causing the sense of unease that’s crawling over his skin. He sits up, gets halfway to reaching for the lamp on the end table, then freezes as he catches sight of the silhouette in the hallway, just barely visible in the ambient light spilling in from the street.

“Natasha?” he breathes, trying not to make the instinctive calculation of how long it would take to get to any of the weapons that are stashed around the apartment. It isn’t so much that he fears intentional harm from her at this point--she’s had plenty of opportunity, and never given him any reason to suspect--but he’s painfully aware that her actions might _not_ be her own, that they’ve spent a lot of time lately poking the demons in her head with pointy sticks.

“Sorry,” she says quietly, and for a moment Clint can’t be completely certain whether she’s speaking to him or to the darkness itself. “I didn’t--Well, I guess I did mean to wake you.”

Clint nods once, mostly to himself--though right now he has the peculiar sense that he’s sharing the room with some sort of nocturnal predator, and the idea of Natasha with night vision doesn’t seem entirely beyond the realm of possibility. He shakes himself. “Okay. I’m awake. What did--Did you want a light on? I can turn on a light.”

“I remembered,” she whispers, and the sound of her voice makes him go still once again, doesn’t let him get as far as turning on the light.

“You--remembered what?” asks Clint, though he already knows the answer beyond a doubt. Maybe he just doesn’t doesn’t want to admit it to himself. 

“The person,” says Natasha, her tone edging toward impatience. “The one on the table. I remembered her face, I--know why it matters.” 

“Okay,” Clint says, as calmly as he can. He considers the lamp one more time, decides that if she hasn’t chosen to turn on any lights, he won’t either. This feels like the sort of conversation that goes better in darkness anyway. “And you woke me up because you wanted to tell me?”

“I can’t lose it again,” she insists. 

“Come sit,” says Clint, sitting up and moving his legs off the couch to make room for her. 

She moves silently to perch beside him, and Clint thinks one more time of how foolish he’s probably being, how blindly trusting of someone who’s told him outright that he shouldn’t.

“So,” he says instead, offering her the blanket he’s just shed, “the person on the table.”

Natasha takes a breath, swallows audibly, struggling now that she’s made her opportunity to talk. Clint hesitates for only a moment longer, then reaches into the darkness between them and takes her hand.

“There’s a test,” she says slowly, and her tone is different now, more detached. She’s telling the story, isn’t quite reliving it right this moment. “A few months--they told us it was a few months after we arrived--they took everyone in my class, tied us down to tables in one of the operating rooms. It was a test for one of the older girls, one who was about to graduate. But we were being tested, too.”

Clint feels vaguely sick as she speaks, waits for the horrors he knows are coming. He’s seen plenty of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s intel on the program, always hoped that most of it was false, overblown.

“There was one hour allowed for the examination,” says Natasha, her voice almost entirely flat now. “One hour for her to break us, to make us cry. Anyone that did had her throat opened with a knife. Not even the dignity of a bullet in the head.”

“In the memory,” says Clint, his throat feeling dry, “you’re the one on the table?”

“No,” she whispers. “I was, once. But this--the girls on the tables--they’re _children_ and I’ve broken them all. That’s what the razor is for.”

“Fuck,” Clint breathes, unable to stop himself.

“I passed,” says Natasha. “And I let them have their _ceremony_. And then I left, in the night, because I’d decided I’d rather be dead than-- _that_.”

“Natasha,” Clint begins, because he doesn’t know what else to say, what he can do to even come close to counteracting the horror of what she’s just told him.

She pulls her hand away from his, draws her knees up to her chest and rests her head against them. For a moment he sits in tense silence, wondering whether he ought to simply leave her alone. That isn’t right, though, isn’t the deal he made her weeks ago.

“Natasha,” he says again, a little louder, but still gently. “Come back.” When she still doesn’t respond he reaches out again, rests his hand on her shoulder and tries to figure out whether there’s anything else he can do. 

After a moment, she looks up again, tears standing out in her eyes, catching the weak light from a car passing on the street outside. Clint moves slowly, taking her hand and running his fingers over her wrist, feeling the quick fluttering of her pulse. She doesn’t pull away this time, doesn’t resist, just lets him move her how he wants, as if she might be watching from somewhere outside her own body again. Clint squeezes her hand lightly, still fighting not to be overwhelmed with the weight of what she’s just shared. He can’t afford to think too much about what he’s doing, just keeps going. Gently, he moves her hand up to rest against his neck, her fingers cool against his skin.

“Feel that?” he asks, shifting so that her palm rests over his pulse point. An escaped tear is tracking slowly down her cheek, and Clint reaches out with his free hand to catch it on his thumb. “I’m alive. I’m alive and I trust you.”

A sob slips from her throat at that, the odd stillness of memory that’s seemed to carry her away broken all at once. He doesn’t think twice, just leans in and wraps his arms around her, doesn’t say anything as she finally crumbles, each breath rough with tears, heavy with shame. He knows what it’s like, having fear layered on top of pain, any show of weakness seeming more inconceivable than punishment or death. Clint sits with her in silence, just holding on. By the time her breathing evens out and she pulls away, the sky is growing light outside.

“Go ahead,” she says bitterly, swiping at her eyes. “Call Fury.”

“And tell him what?” asks Clint, though he’s pretty sure he already knows the answer.

Natasha huffs a laugh. “That I’m insane?”

Clint sighs, his heart aching. “How about I make some tea instead?”


	6. Chapter 6

Natasha doesn’t cry when she repeats the memory to Drummond in the light of day. Clint can’t help feeling vaguely guilty as he watches her, has to shove down the impulse to interrupt and save her from her own past. He knows it won’t work, _can’t_ work, but the temptation is there all the same.

“Open your eyes,” says Drummond, when Natasha’s finished her story, finished describing every detail, every thought and emotion from that day, from that hour with a blade in her hands. 

Clint is surprised when Natasha obeys, leans forward to rest her forearms on the surface of the desk and meets Drummond’s gaze. He’s expected her to be falling into the past again, to be lost, but instead she looks angry, perfectly present in this moment. “That’s all of it. That’s what you wanted. Are we done now?”

“I don’t know,” says Drummond, perfectly calm, though her tone leaves no doubt that she is the one in control here. “Are we?”

Natasha sighs. “You’re the expert. You know S.H.I.E.L.D. won’t just-- _take me_ \--like that. ‘Give a security clearance to the assassin. She hasn’t killed any of us for a whole two months!”

“Then I guess we’re not finished,” Drummond says calmly. 

Natasha shifts in her chair, clearly uncomfortable with this entire situation. “Then what was the point? Why make me remember?” Anger flickers over her face again. “I could have been perfectly happy _dying_ without ever remembering that day.”

“Would you?” asks Drummond, her voice edged with skepticism. “Are you telling me that if you’d managed to keep the memory repressed, it wouldn’t have had any effect on your life at all?”

“Sure,” says Natasha, though it sounds more like a wish than an answer. 

“That memory,” says Drummond, “has been haunting you for months. You’ve been teetering on the edge of it, trying not to fall in, but guilt and shame are powerful things. Fear is magnetic. They’ve been pulling you into the past, keeping you from moving on.”

“Great,” says Natasha, still bitterly. “And now that’s all magically fixed, because I remembered? Because I’m pretty sure I’m still insane.”

Drummond smiles sadly. “You and I both know it’s not that simple. But this conversation is sounding an awful lot like another form of avoidance. So--why don’t you tell me what you learned last night, when the memory came back to you?”

Natasha narrows her eyes. “I just told you the rest of it.”

“Not about the memory,” says Drummond. “About your life now. About yourself.”

Natasha pauses, studying the surface of the desk. “I don’t know. I don’t--Why am I still alive? Why aren’t you treating me like a murderer?”

“Are you?” asks Drummond. “A murderer?”

Natasha shifts in her chair, crosses her arms almost defiantly. “I killed people. I didn’t have a choice.”

“And you left afterward,” Drummond counters. “You left, at the risk of your own life. That sounds like making a choice to me.”

“So?” Natasha spits, though Clint can hear her breathing catch, can see a change beginning to settle over her.

“So,” Drummond echoes, “you chose to leave the Red Room. You’ve chosen to work on your recovery so far. What other choices do you want to make?”

* * *

“How did you know?” asks Natasha, the moment that they’re back in the apartment. She’s wandering the living room, too unsettled to be still.

“Know what?” asks Clint. He moves to stand by the couch, hoping she might take the hint and sit down. It’s making him uneasy too, watching her move around like she’s waiting for some sort of sign, some cue to take flight.

“That you shouldn’t have just killed me when we met,” she says darkly, moving to stand by the window, looking down at the street below. “Why didn’t you kill me when I asked for it? Why haven’t _any_ of your people?”

“That’s not what S.H.I.E.L.D. is about,” says Clint, though it sounds idealistic even to his ears. “That’s not what _I’m_ about.”

“Why?” she insists, turning to face him again, her gaze landing heavily on his shoulders. “Everything I’ve done. Everything I’ve told you. How can you see anything other than a lunatic? A monster?”

Clint sucks in a breath, swallows down the uncertainty that rises in the back of his throat. He’s known, somehow, from the beginning that they were going to end up here, falling together toward this point.

“Come here,” he says softly, sinking onto the couch and gesturing for her to sit opposite him. 

Natasha moves slowly, sitting at the far end, her whole body turned to face him head-on. 

“I was in the military,” says Clint, looking down at his hands before meeting her eyes again. His heart is fluttering in his chest, the tightness in his throat threatening to barricade the words he’s determined to get out. “I was a sniper, in Iraq. I got used to it, you know? I’d be assigned a target, I’d do whatever it took to take them out. I was _proud_ of my service to my country. And then one day, I was at my post like usual. Spotted an unknown individual approaching through my scope. I got the order to take the shot. Did it without question.” He pauses, swallows again as his voice threatens to break, the emotion still hot after nearly a decade.

Natasha reaches out silently, finding his hand and squeezing it gently. Clint shudders involuntarily, for a moment unable to do anything but look at the place where their fingers are entwined, the thing that’s anchoring _him_ to the present now.

“It was a _child_ ,” he breathes, the words like gravel in his throat. “A civilian child. Coming to us to ask for help. And I killed him without another thought.”

Natasha exhales a soft sound of pain, shifts closer on the couch without letting go of his hand.

“I tried to convince myself it didn’t matter,” says Clint, finally meeting her eyes again. “Drank my way through the rest of my deployment, which was pretty much the coping strategy of choice in the army. The nightmares started after I got home. Realized I couldn’t be around kids around then, too. Everything was just--flat. Like my brain had two settings: completely numb or wanting to end it all. So I drank more. Was on my way to getting arrested when Fury found me.”

Natasha sucks in a breath, but there’s something in her eyes, a mix of empathy and awe. “What did he say to you? How did he convince you to join? To fight again?”

Clint smiles gently, the sadness of memories still a heavy weight in his chest. “He told me I’m more than the mistakes I’ve made. That he could give me ways to prove it.”

“And if I decide that I want that too?” asks Natasha, still not letting go of his hand.

“Then I’ll help you,” Clint promises, offering her a smile that feels thin even to him. “I’ll keep helping.”

* * *

Fury summons them both to his office on the day of Natasha’s last regular therapy session. It should have been expected, really--the next step is for her to begin training, to work on learning how to live in the world. She even has a fancy certificate to show for her effort, which she’s promised to set on fire, should Clint even _think_ about hanging it on the refrigerator. Now she’s seated in front of Fury’s desk, waiting for his judgment.

“I’m a weapon,” says Natasha, and the note of resignation in her tone twists something inside of Clint’s chest. “But--I want to use it for something better. Something good.”

“For S.H.I.E.L.D.?” asks Fury, studying her.

She nods. “For S.H.I.E.L.D.. For the future. For people who don’t get to make choices.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” Fury tells Natasha, reaching into his desk and pulling out a newly-minted ID card, which he hands over to her. “You’ve still got a lot of work to do. But for now--Welcome to Level One, Agent Romanoff.”

Natasha runs her fingers over the edges of the S.H.I.E.L.D. insignia, then looks up and slowly smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback means the world to me. :)


End file.
